


That Which The Roses Say So Well

by LayALioness



Series: Pour Me the Remembering Wine [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Bellamy starts, and his neck is going pink, which she’s pretty sure is a good sign. “Wanna see where they farm these things?”</p><p>Clarke regards him for a second, because—this is weird, right? Having a sort-of first date at a Cabbage Patch Kids store?</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which The Roses Say So Well

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea. This is probably the strangest au I've ever written.  
> Disclaimer: the first and last time I ever went to Babyland General Hospital, I was like 8, so if it's super different now, sorry.
> 
> Title from Bacchus, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Clarke isn’t really sure why she’s here; twenty-two year olds don’t really tend to spend their Saturdays at the Cabbage Patch Hospital. Or, _Babyland General_ , which is its unfortunate name.

She’d gotten an email from the company, asking for ideas for their new logo, hoping to reinvent themselves for the new century. She’d thought it would be a good idea, to drive the two hours down to Cleveland and visit the toy store, getting a feel for the company as a whole.

Instead, she’s standing awkwardly in the middle of a crowd of wriggly kids and their exasperated parents. Some of the moms keep giving her suspicious looks, which she probably deserves; what sort of grown woman shows up at a hospital for dolls without a child? Suspicious ones, that’s who. She’s pretty sure a few of them are taking discrete pictures of her with their phones, planning to upload them to Watchdog.org. She hopes they all come out blurry.

“Which one’s yours?”

Clarke jumps a little, and turns to find a guy around her age—maybe a little older, it’s hard to tell. He has old man eyes, but that could be from anything—smirking down at her. Well, sort of smirking. It’s a little nicer than a smirk, but definitely still smirkish, like his mouth just defaults to that expression.

“Uh, sorry?” she frowns. He’s attractive, but he probably belongs to one of the kids running around, picking out their favorite babies. She’s not _actively_ against dating a single parent, but she’s doesn’t really like the idea of being a step-mom. Her parents divorced when she was little, and her mom started dating pretty soon after, and Clarke hated it.

The guy nods over to the nearest group of squirming children—she’s decided little kids are essentially like little knife gangs, mobbing together and starting tiny wars with each other. “Which one’s with you?”

“None of them,” Clarke says, and he raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t seem too surprised, otherwise. Then, to be polite, she asks “What about you?”

He glances across the room and she follows his sightline to a pretty brunette who can’t be younger than eighteen. She’s fawning over the tiny foam incubators, filled with soft-headed “newborn” baby dolls. She looks ready to fight a four-year-old over one of them. “My sister,” he says, and Clarke motions for him to continue. “She wanted to come here when she was little, but we never had the extra money.” He sounds incredibly fond, and it’s taking an effect on her. “She just turned twenty-one, so this is her birthday present.”

“You took your twenty-one year old sister to a baby doll factory for her birthday,” Clarke says, incredulous. He grins down at her, and she squints a little to keep from staring. He’s just—he’s very broad, and his hair is messy, and he has _freckles_.

“We’ll get drunk after,” he shrugs. “So what about you? I’m guessing you’re not just a fan of weird-looking kid toys.”

Clarke shakes her head and holds up her sketchbook. It’s open, and the page is filled with half-finished sketches of ideas for the logo. “Graphic designer,” she explains. “The company hired me to revamp their image, so I’m doing recon.”

He grins, and takes the book slowly, so she can stop him if she wants. She doesn’t, and he studies the drawings. “Recon, huh?”

She nods seriously. “It’s very important research I’m conducting,” she says. “Very serious.”

“ _So_ serious,” he agrees, pointing at the doodle she made, of a giant cabbage with fangs devouring several infants. It’s a little too cartoonish to be _really_ gruesome, but there are a lot of torn out intestines littering the page.

“Infanticide is a real and serious tragedy,” she defends, and he laughs.

“Bell,” a girl—his sister, now crossing over to them—calls out. She’s clutching a baby doll viciously, and thrusts it out for him to see. “He has your freckles!”

Bell rolls his eyes and makes a face at Clarke, but he’s smiling so the effect is ruined. “Are you really modeling one of those things after me? O, that’s creepy.” He frowns down at the doll, and grips it gingerly, like he’s afraid it might have some disease.

O rolls her eyes back and huffs, before eyeing Clarke curiously. “He’s afraid admitting CP Kids are cool will break his fragile masculinity,” she explains, and Clarke snorts.

“I’m not,” he says mildly. “I like Taylor Swift. Manicures are cool. I watch _The Bachelorette_ —”

“Who’s your favorite contestant?” Clarke asks, mostly just to see if he’s lying. She’s never actually seen the show.

“Brandon’s perfect for her,” he says, not missing a beat. “But Jason’s got potential.”

O huffs louder, and he shakes the doll until its head bobbles, before she can snatch it back. “We’re getting him,” she says, leaving no room for argument. “I’m naming him Bell Jr. Maybe we’ll get it right, this time.” She turns the full force of her stare on Clarke next, and sticks out the hand that’s not cradling Bell Jr. “I’m Octavia,” she says, and grips Clarke’s hand so tight it hurts.

“Clarke,” she says, and Bell shoves his sister away.

“Stop being a brat,” he says, but there’s no real heat to it. “We were just talking, you don’t have to declare war on her.” He glances at Clarke, apologetic, and rubs the back of his neck. It’s surprisingly endearing. “She thinks I’m hitting on you,” he explains, and Clarke tries not to seem too disappointed. She’d thought he was hitting on her, too.

“Because you _were_ ,” Octavia scoffs, but lets it drop. “They’re doing a tour of the actual cabbage patch in fifteen minutes,” she says. “We’re going.” Then she heads back into the throng of toddlers and disappears.

Bell shakes his head as he watches her leave, and then turns back to Clarke. “I’m Bellamy, by the way. Still weird, but not as weird as Bell.”

Clarke smirks—so what, he wasn’t hitting on her? She’ll hit on him, instead. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I _was_ wondering if you were named after the princess.”

Bellamy laughs. “Thankfully not.” He seems to realize he’s still holding her sketchbook, and hands it back. “You’re good,” he says, and she grins wryly.

“Thanks, that’s sort of why I got an art degree.”

They’re both grinning pretty goofily now, and if he’s _not_ hitting on her, he’s at least flirting back. An old woman wearing a #1 Grandma shirt sidles up to them.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” she sighs happily, and Bellamy and Clarke share a look of mutual distrust. The woman doesn’t seem to notice, and gives them both an indulgent smile. “How old is yours?”

Bellamy chokes on a cough while Clarke tries not to snort too obviously. “Zero,” she says, at the same time Bellamy says “Twenty-one.”

The woman eyes them, confused, while Bellamy reconsiders. “Also, twenty-six,” he adds, and turns to Clarke. “I brought O’s boyfriend too, because I am a saint.”

Clarke _does_ snort this time. “Obviously.” Neither of them really notice when the woman shuffles away.

“So,” Bellamy starts, and his neck is going pink, which she’s pretty sure is a good sign. “Wanna see where they farm these things?”

Clarke regards him for a second, because—this is weird, right? Having a sort-of first date at a Cabbage Patch Kids store? “You just don’t want to third wheel your sister and her boyfriend,” she accuses, and he grins.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Want to be my fourth wheel?”

She pretends to think about it, but there’s no way she’s leaving _now_. Besides, she has to see the garden to complete her scouting, right? She’s a professional.

Octavia pokes her head in the doorway, and quirks an eyebrow at them. Clarke and Bellamy glance around, only to find the room completely empty. When did that happen? Octavia seems unsurprised, and rolls her eyes impressively. Bell Jr. is strapped to her back in some sort of baby carrier made completely out of glittery green ribbon.

“The tour’s starting,” she barks. “Let’s go.”

“Clarke’s coming,” Bellamy tells her, starting over. He hooks his arm in the strap of Clarke’s messenger bag, and slides it on his shoulder. She tries to protest, but when he looks back, his eyes are too soft for her to really say no.

“Of course Clarke’s coming,” Octavia says, like it’s obvious. “We’re gonna be _late_.”

“Where’s Lincoln?” Bellamy asks pointedly, and she shrugs.

“Wherever the most babies are.” She considers and then adds, “Human babies.”

“Lincoln is a baby magnet,” Bellamy tells Clarke. “He doesn’t talk to adults, and babies _can’t_ talk, so they have a lot in common.”

“You’re such a dick,” Octavia says, but she’s grinning, as they finally make it outside.

Sure enough, there’s a very large, tattooed man standing off to the side with four or five toddlers climbing him like a tree. He’s smiling, kind of, a little, and it widens when he notices them.

“I’m guessing he belongs to you?” Clarke asks, and Octavia nods proudly.

“If this is everyone for the garden tour,” a middle-aged woman announces, “My name is Vera, and I’ll be your guide for the afternoon. Let’s go see the cabbages!” She sounds entirely too enthusiastic about spending half an hour looking at vegetables, but Clarke’s spending her whole day at a toy store, so it’s not like she can judge.

“What do you wanna bet she’s a dog mom?” Bellamy asks, bending low to her ear so no one else hears him, as they fall in line with the rest of the group.

“She probably has the names of her five French Bulldogs cross stitched on a pillow,” she says, and he snorts.

“This is where we grow our babies that grow up to be nurses and doctors,” Vera says, pointing to a row of what looks suspiciously like beets.

“I bet they don’t have a starving artist section,” Clarke sniffs.

“Or vintners,” Bellamy adds, and Clarke squints up at him. It’s early afternoon, and the sun is bright in her eyes.

“You make wine?” she asks, and he looks pleased that she recognized the word.

“I have a vineyard, yeah,” he says. “Up in North Carolina.” At her look of surprise, he frowns. “What?”

Clarke bites back a grin. “I live in South Carolina,” she says. “Greenville. In the mountains, kind of.”

Bellamy ducks his head with a smile, adjusting her bag on his shoulder. “Cool, we’re up near Charlotte.”

“Maybe I should come by some time,” Clarke muses. “I’ve never been to a vineyard.” She does the math in her head; Charlotte’s only an hour and a half’s drive from her home.

And she _likes_ him. Plus, she’ll probably get some wine out of it.

“You should,” Bellamy agrees. “Friends get a discount.”

Clarke nudges his hip with her own. He doesn’t even _move_ , he’s so solid. “Oh, so we’re _friends_ now?” she teases, but he just grins down at her. There’s the edge of a smirk to his smile, but mostly it just looks hopeful.

“Friends,” he agrees, and then laughs when he glances up. They’ve been left behind again, the rest of the group fading into dots up ahead.

“You’re very distracting,” Clarke grumbles, quickening her strides to catch up. He grins, stepping along easily beside her, not even breathing heavy.

When they reach the rest of the tour, Octavia eyes them both a little smugly, flashing Bellamy a look Clarke’s pretty sure means _don’t embarrass me_. Then she straightens Bell Jr. on her back and turns back to wrap both hands around Lincoln’s arm. There are still two stray kids, one attached to each of his legs, and Clarke wonders idly where their parents are.

“She’s such a brat,” Bellamy sighs, and Clarke smiles up at him.

“I think it’s cute.”

Bellamy scoffs. “Only child, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah,” Clarke shrugs. “I never got to have the whole sibling telepathy thing, or hand-me-downs. I had to have, like, twice as many imaginary friends to make up for it.”

Bellamy grins. “How many did you have?”

“No comment,” Clarke says. “But there was a squirrel in the bathroom vents, named Suzy.”

“Mine was a moose,” Bellamy offers, and Clarke stares at him.

“A _moose_?” she asks, and he shrugs. “A moose.”

“What’s wrong with moose?” he asks, defensive, and Clarke makes a face.

“They’re _moose_ —how did you even know about them?”

“I watched a lot of Discovery Channel as a kid.”

“He watches a lot of Discovery Channel _now_ ,” Octavia calls back, and he huffs.

“If we could save comments and questions until after the tour,” Vera calls out, _clearly_ for them. “These babies are just about ripe,” she says with a smile. Clarke’s pretty sure they’re in the middle of a potato field.

“Do you think they sell them by the pound, too?” Bellamy asks her.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “They’re babies; it’s by the ounce.”

“My mistake.”

They make it through the rest of the tour, with minimal glares from the tour guide and Octavia, although at one point Clarke steps on a stick that digs through the sole of her sneaker, and she hisses _fuck_ , which has more than a few parents turning to scowl at her.

At the end, she has a few more quick sketches done—several of which feature Bellamy, in various stages of undress, because she is an _artist_ , and he has fantastic bone structure. It would be a crime _not_ to draw him.

They’re in the gift shop—him with a magnet shaped like a cabbage, with something that might be a fetus in the leaves. _He_ says it’s a fetus, but Clarke’s pretty sure the company wouldn’t be that actively creepy. She’s buying a bunch of tasteful post cards. She’s not sure what she’ll do with them, yet. She might make a paper mache baby out of them, or send them to Raven in the mail with cryptic messages like _help it’s dark and I can’t get out_ on the backs. She is the _best_ at long-distance friendship.

“So,” Bellamy starts, waiting off to the side while she pays for her stuff. “There’s a crate of wine back in our motel room. We’re gonna get drunk and binge-watch _Matlock_ , or something. Wanna come?”

“Not _The Bachelorette_?” Clarke teases, and he makes a face.

“O’s not a fan,” he grumbles. “ _Yet_. I’m working on Lincoln; we’ve gotten through season one and half of season two. I’m pretty sure his favorite’s still Sterling.” He takes her gift bag, too, as they walk out the door.

“Quit spreading your dork germs to my boyfriend,” Octavia shoots; she and Lincoln have been waiting for them outside, and Clarke eyes his legs suspiciously, searching for any lurking two year olds.

“You just spent your birthday at a _doll store_ ,” Bellamy points out. “You’re not allowed to call anyone dorky.”

Octavia ignores him, and turns to Clarke. “So are you in?”

Clarke glances up to Bellamy, looking down at her. He’s very obviously trying to seem nonchalant about it, and she grins. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “There are worse ways to spend a Saturday.”


End file.
